“He was a fantastic person,” she continued. “Much tougher than me. He always saw the bright side in things, saw the opportunities where I saw the risks. But I wasn’t so sentimental back then either. I dared to spread my wings, dared to be young again and to taste love again. Do you think I’m a bad person, Nanna? Do you?”

Nanna blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. She flicked the stub onto the wet asphalt and saw it extinguished by the rain. Then she crossed her arms with her hands in her armpits and curled up. Without looking at Jeanette, she shook her head.

“You think that yourself, and surely that’s enough? You’re judging yourself too harshly.”

Jeanette was unsure what she was getting at.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly.

“You wanted to tell us,” said Nanna. “Right now it’s just me here. Who am I to judge?”

“Wanted to tell you what? When?”

“At your place. When the police turned up.”

“But . . . You weren’t there, how . . .?”

“I was there. I wouldn’t let you go home with two pissed blokes.”

The rain pattered on the hood and formed puddles on the ground in front of them. Jeanette pulled the bottle from her rucksack and took a swig and then another, before concealing the bottle inside her anorak. Of course Nanna could have been there at home—Jeanette’s field of vision had been limited to the bed, where Lubbi and Jimmy were. And she was unlikely to forget anytime soon how Lubbi had persuaded her to tell that awful story in the first place. How she had almost looked forward to it being over—of course they would hate her, but it would still be better than carrying the burden alone. And now she was here, one-on-one with Nanna, who would never say anything, never judge or reject her. An opportunity had emerged for Jeanette to simply eject the poison, and perhaps—just maybe—the burden would be less onerous.

Common sense pricked her consciousness: it would never be a good idea to tell this story—not to anyone. The last time she had got out of the trap at the last moment—this time there was no rescue in sight. Did she really know what she was getting herself into?

Her emotions also made themselves known. She was already there, in Peter’s arms, and that was where she wanted to stay. She was in a good mood, talkative, blunt, and unsentimental. This was offering her the chance to offload what was weighing her down—she wouldn’t have the same chance in the same favourable circumstances again.

“You’ll hate me,” said Jeanette.

“Hate is a strong word,” said Nanna.

Jeanette took a deep breath, and felt the urge to light a cigarette, but the chances of success in this rain weren’t good.

“It was in January,” she began. “The last time I would see Peter—although I didn’t know that at the time. We were heading into the forest somewhere, neither of us really knew where, but we never did. We talked about the future—our shared future. Danced around the subject without either of us saying anything plainly. Were we prepared to sacrifice everything we had built for this passionate infatuation that might be nothing more than that? I had a lot of gloomy thoughts. Felt dirty—so filled with lust for a man who belonged to someone else. Lying and deceitful towards my husband. I know that you can and perhaps even should let yourself feel that strongly about someone else—to do what I did. But the betrayal . . . and it was the small one in the context.”